Home at the Holmes'
by forever-nerdy
Summary: John Watson has just lost a dear friend and what he now realizes was the only man he ever fancied. Life at 221B looks pretty bleak when he unexpectedly receives a letter from none other than sherlock's mother inviting him to dinner.
1. Chapter 1

And John shook slightly as the tears blurred his vision. Finally, after what might have been hours, or days, or decades, John Watson turned his back on the tomb stone. His whole body felt a thousand pounds heavier, and it took an immense amount of effort even to breath. He inhaled the thick sticky air and took a step forward.

He hit the ground in front of him with quite a bit of force; his hands flew up instinctively to break the fall. His left wrist cracked audibly and pain of a different sort washed over John. "Shit." He muttered. Standing was such a hard thing to do when it felt as if the entire world was pressing down on you, wanting you to fail, wanting you to stay down. Eventually, though, you must get up, as did Watson.

* * *

John limped the whole way back to 221B Baker Street, his left hand dangling limply at his side, his right clenched in his coat pocket.

He paused, staring at the fading gold lettering on the glaring black door. Another tear managed to work its way out of John's eye and onto his cheek. He whipped it away quickly, not wanting Mrs. Hudson to see how distressed he really was.

His hand shook slightly as he reached for the door knob, 'You can do this, John. Nearly all of his things are packed away. It's just you and Mrs. Hudson.' Something sharp pricked inside of him as he admitted it to himself. "He's gone, John." He whispered, "He's not coming back. Not this time."

He trudged inside the weary structure and slowly went up stairs. The place used to smell of chemicals and tobacco and gun powder. Now it smelt of dust and moth balls. It smelt old.

John plopped onto armchair facing the fireless mantle, placing a hand over his eyes. He didn't dare pick up the paper. It was all lies. All of it. Normal people, society; they had it all wrong. Justice, hope, faith; those were lies, too. Allusions meant to give people a false sense of security. How disgusting that what humanity depended upon the most was a lie.

His head turned to the window expectantly, imagining, perhaps, that Sherlock would be standing there looking out at the passing cars or tuning his violin. No, in fact, his instrument was collecting dust on top of the mantle. It along with the skull was one of the few things he couldn't bear to pack away. For sentimental reasons, and because the skull actually proved to be decent company. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't as insane as he'd imagined. Or, more likely, John was slowly reaching that same point of insanity and beyond.

"Oh good, dear, you're back. I thought I'd heard you came in. The weather is simply awful outside, well below freezing. Can I make you some tea, John?"

Weather? Tea? These were all complex and meaningless phrases he didn't have the energy nor the patience to decode.

"No thank you Mrs. Hudson." He sighed anyway. "I'm fine, thank you."

She came over and placed a warm motherly hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, dear. Truly. What you and Sherlock had is irreplaceable. But, in time, you'll find someone you can love just as much as you loved him. I know you will."

He didn't even protest. He couldn't. She was right, he had loved Sherlock; he'd just realized it too late. What a fool he'd been; all those dinners, all those late nights in the laboratory, all those chases. How could he have been so oblivious? Why hadn't he seen?"

Mrs. Hudson kissed John's forehead. "Have a good evening, John. Let me know if you need anything."

'But, remember, I'm your land lady, not your maid.' He added in his head.

That night, John Watson sat and remembered and wept and pleaded and regretted and slept. Not bothering to eat or change clothes.

* * *

The following afternoon he was woken by the sound of feet climbing the stairs. He rubbed his eyes and sat up a little straighter in the old armchair. It wasn't only Mrs. Hudson, by the sound of it. There was someone else. And he thought he knew who.

"He's just in here, love." He heard Mrs. Hudson open the door.

"Thanks, mum."

'No. I told her not to come. I told her I was fine.' He thought angrily.

"John?" Harry was timid. For once. "Johnny, you awake?"

"No. Come back later." He grumbled.

"You look horrible. Like something from a nightmare." Her mouth twitched a bit, wanting to smirk, but refraining.

"Great. Thanks. I'm glad you took the trouble of visiting so you could point out the obvious."

She stood there awkwardly. She was tall. Taller than John. With cropped sandy hair and hazel eyes. Her mouth and bone structure were identical to John's. She would be a very attractive woman if not for the off putting circles set deep and eternally purple around her weary eyes, as if she had not slept properly in years.

"Harry, why are you here? No offense, but I really don't need or want to hear your condolences. I told you; I'm fine."

"Which is how I knew you weren't and why I came here as soon as I could." She fell onto the sofa, crossing her lengthy legs over it, making herself at home.

John locked his jaw, shaking his head in frustration.

"So you loved him?" she got right to the point, ignoring John's aggravation.

He swallowed hard before answering, "Yes."

"And were you two…?"

"No. We always…. People would always….No."

"I see." She paused a moment. "I saw his photo in the paper. He was… a very attractive man. And really clever, too, apparently."

"He was brilliant." And he broke down. "He was the most… the best… friend… and best man… I've ever know. And I'll never know if… if he loved me back."

Harriet stood and embraced her brother. "Shh. Don't." he was shaking horribly. "He loved you, John, I know he did."

They stayed like that for a while and it took a good deal of calming words and gentle patting on the back on Harry's part to finally calm John down. When he was finally reasonable enough to stop shaking Harriet moved to the kitchen. "I'm making you tea, Johnny."

"No. I'm fine."

"Stop saying that. You just sobbed for twenty minutes straight. You aren't fine and I'm making tea. No matter what you've got to say about it." She rummaged through the cabinets and shrieked, "John! What the- are these… human eyes?"

He smiled in spite of himself, "it's an experiment."

* * *

"So… how is she?" the tea had soothed John much more than he was expecting, and for a moment he stopped talking about Sherlock and instead talked to his sister; something he hadn't done in ages.

She stared into her mug, as if the answer might be written on the bottom. "Fine, I s'pose." She shrugged. "I haven't really spoken to her."

"What about you? How are you?"

"Fine." It was a family habit to use 'fine' as a synonym for 'horrible' or 'on the verge of death'.

"You, too?" he commented, taking notice.

She laughed, "Yeah, well…"

They spent the rest of the day talking, laughing a bit and watching telly, the things normal people did, until Harry stood and, yawning, said, "I'd better get home. It's getting late."

John stood, too, "Well, if you must." He hugged her, a little tighter than he might otherwise do. "Good night, Harry."

"Night, John, and, feel better, all right?"

"Sure."

* * *

The moment she left depression once again spread through John and 221B. the sense of loss was everywhere, and the feeling of loneliness was almost crippling.

He tried ignoring it; changing out of his clothes and climbing in bed, but soon he was up and pacing around the flat. It wasn't long before he found himself in Sherlock's bedroom. It was filled wall to wall with cardboard boxes. He didn't realize his friend had had so many belongings until he was forced to pack them away, beaker by beaker.

John's eyes wandered to the bed; an amalgamation of splayed and twisted white linen. It was apparent Sherlock hadn't been a sound sleeper. Perhaps that was why he was always at least slightly aggravated.

The bed was very soft and springy and, above all, warm. John at first felt guilty for lying in Sherlock's room, but he soon got over it and succumbed to exhaustion. He dreamt of running and of Moriarty and of falling. "Sherlock!" he cried out, crashing onto the freezing wood beneath him and hitting his head with a sudden thud.

He couldn't tell from this part of the flat what time of day it was; there were no windows or clocks. He groaned and got to his feet, cringing a little for the sudden weight on his leg. He thought he might make himself something warm to drink, since it seemed to have helped before.

The main room was freezing and empty. John imagined Sherlock at his desk, wrapped in his sheet, talking about the stupidity of 'average' people. He could even hear his voice, "Black, two sugars, John." he remember the time Sherlock had made him coffee, in Baskerville; an attempt at making amends. Perhaps he really had…. 'Stop doing this to yourself.' John glanced at his watch. He was about to be late for work. This wouldn't do at all, considering all the sick days he'd taken recently. Quickly he dashed to his closet and threw on a shirt and pants and made for the door with still slippered feet.

"Forgetting something, Dr. Watson?" came a voice from behind.

John jumped and spun on his heel to find Mycroft Holmes sitting in the armchair, holding out a pair of sneakers.

"Mycroft?"

"Good for you, John. At least you remembered something today. But I'm not here to help dress you. Not today, anyway. I'm here to give you this." He produced an envelope with an old-fashioned and very formal looking wax seal.

"What's this?"

"Open it, it should say. As is the beauty of letters."

John glared at Mycroft and irritably tore at the envelope. The letter within read:

"Dear Doctor John H. Watson,

You are cordially invited to supper in memoriam

of the late Sherlock Holmes at 7 o'clock this evening.

The address, of course, is of the upmost secrecy.

Mycroft will drive you.

Sincerely hoping you will make it,

Mrs. Martha S. Holmes

P.S. Don't let him drug you.

It hardly makes for a cheery dining atmosphere."

"Martha Holmes is your mother." John didn't attempt to hide the edge of surprise in his voice. Of course a part of him always guessed Sherlock must have a mother, but more of him thought it more likely the Holmes brothers were the product of a science experiment gone wildly out of control.

"Indeed. You really needn't come. It won't be anything extravagant. At any rate, the conversation will be a bit above your level."

"No, I want to come." Said john firmly; partly to spite Mycroft, and partly because he was equally intrigued and terrified at the prospect of more Sherlocks.

Mycroft sighed. "Suit yourself. A car will be by to pick you up at six thirty presicely. Don't be late, I'd be only too happy to leave you."

He nodded wearily, "Thank you. Now if you don't mind, please leave. If you do mind, leave anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

John practically flew up the stairs of 221B after work. He rummaged through his closet for over an hour in search of something decent to wear. Truthfully, he hadn't the faintest idea what outfit would be best suited for this occasion. If Sherlock and Mycroft were any indication, the Holmes family would not be typical in the least.

He finally settled on an old button down and some work pants. Not too formal, not too casual. he thought he might also work on his hair and, to his immediate regret, glanced in the mirror to do so.

'Jesus Christ.' He thought, 'Harry was right; I look like a nightmare.'

John hadn't spent as much time on personal grooming of late. He guessed it was because he no longer had anyone to impress, and he no longer cared if anyone was. Tonight, however, he made a special exception.

At six twenty, he walked outside the flat, scanning the street for the Mycroft-like vehicle that was supposed to be picking him up. He felt like he the star of a bad soap opera, preparing to meet the parents of a secret lover. Except the secret lover was now dead, and he wasn't actually a lover. He sighed and looked again up the street, just in time to see a glossy black town car pull into the street.

It slowed in front of the flat and Mycroft rolled down his window. "Positive?" he asked, giving john one more chance to escape.

John nodded once. He wouldn't miss this for anything. He wanted to feel closer to Sherlock, and he felt this was the only way. Climbing in, he realized that this could be his only opportunity to learn things about Sherlock the man never would have shared with anyone. Although this sent a rush of adrenaline through him, he also hesitated. Would Sherlock want him to know his family? Would he want his family to know John? Of course he wouldn't, but that never stopped john before.

He slammed the door shut, and sat a little straighter, feeling more confident about this meeting than he was when he initially accepted the invitation.

It wasn't until the car came to a screeching halt in front of the Holmes residence that John realized he had fallen asleep. His eyes flew to his watch; eight forty-six. "Jesus," he said aloud to Mycroft, "Where do you live?"

"In there." He nodded to the gigantic and somewhat menacing manor in front of him.

"I can see how you and Sherlock became so dramatic."

Mycroft ignored him and left the car, taking long strides to the front door and closing it behind him.

John pursed his lips and followed suit. The house, if you could call it that, was at least three stories tall and about as wide as Baker street. Again he hesitated, now intimidated not by the prospect of Sherlock or his family, but instead by the sheer size of his home.

Mycroft suck his head out of the door. "Doctor, are you coming in, or would you prefer the porch?"

John stepped in. the inside was not at all what he imagined. The furniture in the main room was scattered and mismatched, and by no means extravagant. No paintings or photographs hung on the walls, and the fireplace was cold and unused. The only defining features it had were an impressive thirty foot tall bookcase stocked to the brim with literature and textbooks, a massive crystal chandelier, and a winding staircase that met at the front door. Mycroft looked bored, but John was rather impressed.

"You grew up here?" He muttered, surveying the place.

"I'll get mother. The sooner this is over with, the better." He left John standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands borrowed in his pockets. Just then, a frazzled looking woman with intense eyes and grey, flyaway hair came up behind him, making him jump.

"You must be John!" she yelled at him. she wore an alarmingly pink dress, bunny slippers, and a white apron flecked with what looked suspiciously like blood.

"Yes, hello." He nodded, trying to look more pleasant than alarmed, "Are you Mrs. Holmes? Sherlock's mother?"

"Yes. well, not really anymore. He doesn't need me. Or rather, he didn't." she stared into space for several minutes.

"Ah, there you are, mother." Mycroft came back into view, this time accompanied by a surly old man, with no hair and a big gut. He had on a fine suit complete with bowtie and cummerbund. He grimaced at john and settled into an armchair, looking drowsy.

This was a bad idea. John felt it now, and, whether it was because of the insanity of his mother, the bordem of his father, or the smug look on his brother's face, John felt close to tears, and almost broke down in front of the entire family when a boy of about fourteen of fifteen slid down the stair rail.


	3. Chapter 3

All the wind was knocked from john as he stared, open mouthed, at what was obviously Sherlock's youngest brother. He had skin like snow and eyes like ice; his hair was thick and black, and dangled, long and wavy, over his face. He scowled at Mycroft, but other than that made no indication he had seen any of them. The boy stalked right past them and over to the grand bookshelf, running a finger over the worn volumes.

The former rolled his eyes, "That is Atticus. Our youngest brother."

"Son," said the bald man in the arm chair, "Introduce yourself to this man your mother invited over."

"Why should i? Mycroft seems to have it under control, as he usually does. Besides, what's the point? I already know all I need to know about him." and, as if to prove himself, he stepped in front of John, scanned him for a moment, and said, "You're a doctor, you've lived in London for about a year and a half now, you enjoy sweaters and tea and you've given up on yourself; perhaps because you're distressed over the death of your friend but more likely because you were deeply in love with him, which is your reason in being here, am I correct, Doctor Watson?"

John, who hadn't heard a word of what younger Sherlock had said, suddenly felt light headed and entirely overwhelmed. He blinked stupidly, "I'm sorry?"

He laughed, a throaty noise, and extended his hand. Watson gripped it solidly and tried to smile.

"You can call me John." Atticus' brash and assumptive manner was familiar and comforting to him, and, as strange as it was, he appreciated it greatly.

"Come here, I want to show you something, John."

He led John up the long winding stairs and through a surprisingly long corridor. It was brightly lit, and adorned with decorative paintings that felt strangely out of place, even in a house like this. When they reached the end of the main hall, Atticus took a sharp turn to the left, and led him to a narrow and surprisingly longer passage than the one before it. This one was dark and windowless, and more than a little foreboding. John tried masking his uneasiness, "Where are you taking me?"

"Sherlock's room. No one ever came down here, which is why he liked it. It's just down here." They reached a dead end marked with it door. On it hung a white piece of printer paper that read, 'DO NOT DISTURB.'

John smiled, a real, genuine smile, for the first time in ages, "This is definitely Sherlock."

"You can have a look inside. If you want."

This time John didn't pause to think, he reached for the door and pulled it open.


	4. Chapter 4

it was both shocking and crippling to find Sherlock's room completely empty. John wanted to stay strong, and up until this point he had done very well, but everyone has a breaking point. He covered his eyes as his body shook with the force of his sobs, and it was a while before he felt stable enough to face Atticus.

He turned, ready to demand to know why he had been brought here, and why on earth he thought John would want to see it. however it was Atticus standing before him. it was him. the man John had cried for countless months over. The man people came to for answers. His best friend. the man he wanted so desperately to be something more.

Sherlock looked immensely uncomfortable, and stared at the ground before making eye contact with him, "John, I-"

But john couldn't wait for him to finish. He had already waited more than he could stand. He decided he didn't care what the reasons were for sherlocks disapperence, and he didn't care if there were any. He didn't even care if this was real or fake. If this was some cruel joke of Mycroft's or a creation of his own imagination, so be it.

He swiftly and desperately entangled himself in Sherlock's suddenly tense figure. He gripped him tightly, to the point Sherlock had to struggle for breath, but he had no choice. If he didn't take advantage of this moment, he may never get another one like it; Sherlock might disappear again.

He wasn't exactly positive what drove him to the man's lips, but whatever it was, he was glad of it. they were soft and surprisingly warm, and they formed in his perfectly.

Sherlock hesitated, not sure of what to do, and a little put off that John would confuse him this way. he thought he might break it off, or say something, but he didn't, and it was in that moment that he realized he didn't want to.


End file.
